


These things tend to work themselves out

by secondshame



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 22:30:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondshame/pseuds/secondshame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Piqué knows that Puyol is just making a joke, not referring to anything that Piqué may or may not have said after approximately eight too many cervezas following the World Cup, so he laughs along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These things tend to work themselves out

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this before Villa transferred. And for purposes of this story Cesc and Piqué are both single because writing a story where someone chooses anyone over Shakira is just hard for me to imagine. Also on Livejournal [here](http://secondshame.livejournal.com/2531.html).

It starts when a player at CD Numancia comes out. He’s nobody in particular, only Xavi says he’s even met the guy, but he’s the first player in one of the upper level Spanish leagues to be openly gay, so it’s a pretty big deal. Someone at Barcelona decides it would be a good gesture to send a message of support to the player, so the print shop gets a new order and the starting XI wear shirts that say “ _Te apoyamos Miguel_ ” at their next home game.

It’s in the dressing room after the match—they win 3 to 0, of course—that someone says, “When do you think someone in the Primera will come out?” 

“I don’t care when,” Villa says, focused on his phone, “I wanna know _who_.” 

“Ronaldo,” someone else, maybe Jordi, says immediately, and they all laugh. They start throwing out names, joking—Sergio Ramos gets an even bigger laugh than Cristiano Ronaldo—and then someone says, “Cesc.” 

There’s more laughter and then Alexis says, “You’re just picking on him because he’s not here. Where is he anyway?” 

“Injured,” Piqué reminds him. “Muscle, remember?” 

“Yeah, but him and Puyi were coming to watch, weren’t they? You’d think they’d have come down here by now.”

“Off declaring their love for each other,” Tello says, and he and Alexis collapse in a fit of giggles.

“Declaring their love for Piqué,” Busi says dryly. 

Piqué smirks. “Probably.”

“Hey, Piqué,” Villa asks, “If you had to choose between Carles and Cesc—“

“What,” Piqué interrupts, “Like—“

“Yeah,” Villa confirms, “Like—“ he makes an obscene gesture with his hands and his hips. 

“He’d choose Cesc, obviously,” Xavi says, shutting his locker door and turning around to finally join the conversation. “Piqué loves Cesc like you love your phone.” 

“Carnally,” Dani clarifies. Villa makes another rude gesture without looking up from his text messages. 

“Fuck off,” Piqué says, laughing, “If anything, he’d be in love with me.” 

“Sure, sure,” Xavi replies, and then adds in a high-pitched voice that doesn’t even sound like an _attempt_ at impersonating Piqué, “Oh, Cesc, please come home. Barcelona is _so lonely_ without you.” 

Which, really, helium-voice aside, is a little bit too accurate. But that was years ago, and he was just confused. And also he’s pretty sure Xavi knows nothing about it. If he does then Piqué doesn’t care that Puyol’s got a hurt leg and is Piqué’s best friend; he’s a dead man. 

“You’re one to talk,” Piqué tells Xavi. He picks up one of his boots and launches it in Xavi’s direction. Xavi dodges it, chuckling, and Andres picks it up off the floor and hands it back to Piqué. 

+

“Hey, guys,” Puyol says, coming into the dressing room with Cesc close behind.

“Puyi!” Villa says, finally looking up from his phone. “How’s the leg?”

“More or less the same,” Puyol tells him, and Villa gets up and pats him reassuringly on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry, old man, you’ll be back out there in no time.” People are leaving the locker room and, giving Puyol a quick hug on his way out, Villa turns to follow Busi, Andres, Leo. 

“You guys want to come over for dinner?” Cesc asks Piqué and Puyol when they are the last three in the locker room. 

“Plans with Vanesa,” Puyol says. 

So Cesc turns to Piqué, who says, “Yeah, sure,” And they walk out of the stadium and to the parking garage. Piqué follows Cesc home but loses him at a traffic light because Cesc drives like a maniac. When he arrives at Cesc’s house, Carlota greets him, on her way out as Gerard is walking in. He gives her a hug and a kiss on the cheek and she tells him that Cesc is in the kitchen before heading outside and slamming the door shut behind her.

Cesc hands him a bottle of beer when he enters the room. It’s not opened because that amount of hospitality is apparently beyond Cesc, so Piqué pops the cap off on the corner of the kitchen island and Cesc complains that Piqué is going to break his countertops. Cesc finishes cooking, the pasta with some kind of oily garlic sauce and divides it into two bowls. 

They lean against the counters, eating the pasta and drinking their beers, and Cesc says, “So what do you think about that guy from Numancia?” 

Piqué shrugs. “Good for him, I guess. Hope he doesn’t get too much shit about it.”

Cesc frowns. “He probably will.” His frown deepens. Then he takes another bite of pasta. “Have you ever thought about what it would be like?” 

“What, being with guys?” Piqué asks, after a moment’s hesitation. Cesc shrugs. “Uh. Not really, have you?” 

Cesc shrugs again. “No,” he says. “Not like, _being_ with guys, but like, what if I wanted to be? Just, what would that be like? Wanting to be with men and not just women? I’ve thought about that I guess.” He pauses and then says, “That sounded dumb.” 

“Most of what you say sounds dumb,” Piqué informs him. Cesc takes a piece of spaghetti out of his bowl and flings it at Piqué. “And most of what you do, too.” 

Later they watch a movie and Cesc falls asleep with his head on Piqué’s shoulder. When the film ends, Piqué pushes Cesc off of him but Cesc doesn’t wake up, so Piqué just leaves him there and goes upstairs and sleeps in Cesc’s bed. Around 5am Piqué wakes up and when his eyes adjust to the darkness he can make out Cesc, a motionless lump on the other side of the bed. Piqué grabs at him, tugs on his shirtsleeve until Cesc rolls over and sleepily curls his hand in the neck of Piqué’s t-shirt, and they both drift back to sleep. 

+

The next day at training there are a few comments about the player from Numancia, but since nobody knows him there’s not much to say, and the conversation quickly moves on to other things. That is, until Puyol, who is allowed to be outside to stretch before he goes to the indoor gym for his rehab, asks Piqué how dinner had been.

“Ah, date night at the Piqué-Fabregas household?” Dani asks innocently. 

“They do make a cute couple, don’t they,” Puyol says, grinning, and Piqué glares at him.

“Don’t you get in on this too,” he warns, and Puyol laughs. 

“Sorry, Geri,” he says, “If it makes you feel any better you’re definitely in my top five WAGs.”

This gives Piqué a whole new thing to feel offended about. “Why am I the WAG?” he demands. “Why isn’t Cesc the WAG?” 

“Because you’re the one in love,” Jordi chimes in. 

“Like I said yesterday,” Piqué replies, “If anyone’s in love with anyone else, it’s Cesc. I mean—it’s _Cesc_ , right?” 

“I don’t know,” Jordi begins. Piqué’s teammates are clearly egging him on but now he feels he has to defend himself. 

“I’ll prove it,” he says. 

Puyol cracks up at this and puts his arm around Piqué’s shoulders. “Ah, _cabrón_ ,” he says fondly, “You know I have infinite faith in you, but how the fuck are you planning to do that? You going to make Cesc fall in love with you?” Piqué knows that Puyol is just making a joke, not referring to anything that Piqué may or may not have said after approximately eight too many cervezas following the World Cup, so he laughs along. Cesc wanders over to the circle a moment later to ask what’s so funny, but nobody answers him. 

+

Everyone seems to have forgotten about it by the time training is over, but on the drive back to his house Piqué begins to wonder why everyone seems to be so certain that if one of them was in love with the other, it’d be him toward Cesc and not the other way around. At least now. As far as anyone knows, it should clearly be Cesc. He probably _could_ make Cesc fall in love with him if he tried, these days; it’d probably be easy. Or at least confuse him a bit. 

Piqué thinks about it a lot over the next few days, in the car and playing video games and on the phone with his mother. It’d make his teammates stop making fun of him, and he really has nothing to lose, anymore. 

As it turns out, it’s not the _worst_ idea Piqué’s ever had, but it’s right up near the top of that list. 

He starts out small, touching Cesc more than usual, wrapping his arms around him at training and kissing his forehead and face, throwing his legs over Cesc’s lap while they play against Masch and Song in FIFA. It’s nothing major, really; they’re pretty affectionate all the time, and if anything it’s probably confirming his teammates’ belief that he has feelings for Cesc. But Cesc reponds to it, tilting his face up for Piqué’s kisses and snuggling into him on the sofa. 

Some part of Piqué wonders what would have happened if he’d done this a few years ago. But Cesc was still in England then, and if he wouldn’t come home for Barcelona and his teammates and his best friend, he wouldn’t have come home for his best friend with an embarrassing crush on him. 

At the end of the week, Cesc is off the injury list and back on the squad, but the game isn’t until Sunday night so Piqué asks Cesc over for dinner on Saturday.

Piqué finds himself obsessing over what to make, even calling his mom to ask for advice on how to cook the fish he picked up at a market that afternoon. But by the time Cesc shows up—late as usual—the kitchen smells pretty good and the food is almost ready. Piqué pours Cesc a glass of wine and hands it to him, and Cesc takes a sip before setting it down on the counter.

“I set the table,” Piqué says. “We can sit there.” 

“Fancy,” Cesc says, looking over his shoulder at it. Piqué turns the lights down lower. “What’s going on?”

“What?” Piqué asks, putting the food on the plates and setting them down on the table. 

“You’re acting weird.” Cesc laughs a little nervously. “Like I’m some girl you’re trying to impress.” 

“What? No. I—Cesc, shut up,” Piqué says. Not that Cesc is wrong, but he didn’t want Cesc to figure it out. Or at least not figure it out and mention it in such an accusing tone. “I’m just making you dinner. I make you dinner all the time. You made me dinner last week.”

“I made you pasta,” Cesc says. He gestures around at the food. “This is like—this is like…” His body language changes, like he’s just realised something, and he makes a sound of frustration. “Ugh, I knew you were going to do this after last week, Geri. This is why I didn’t tell you—“

“Tell me what?” Piqué prompts. “Cesc, tell me what?” 

“Nothing,” Cesc says. “Forget it. Let’s eat.” He sits down. 

Piqué walks around the table to stand beside Cesc’s chair. “Quit being a baby. Tell me what?” Cesc looks up at him with wide eyes and suddenly it hits Piqué like he’s been tackled, knocks the breath out of him. “Cesc,” he says, “Are you—“

“You know what?” Cesc says, pushing his chair back suddenly, forcing Piqué to step away. “I’m not hungry. I’ll see you tomorrow, Gerard.” 

“Cesc,” Piqué says, following him to the front door and out onto the lawn. “Cesc,” he says again, “Stand still.” He grabs Cesc by the arm.

Cesc pulls out of Piqué’s grasp. “Can you just leave it, Gerard? Can you do that?” 

“Cesc,” Piqué says again. “Come on. Come back inside. It’s not a big deal. Come eat dinner.” 

“Right,” Cesc says, “It’s not a big deal. Nothing’s a big deal. Everything’s a joke.”

“Are you kidding me?” Piqué asks. Now he’s getting annoyed, because he’s trying to be nice and Cesc is being a drama queen, as usual. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Cesc says again, and leaves. Piqué stands in the wet grass in his bare feet, watching the taillights of Cesc’s car until they disappear around a corner. Then he goes back in the house. He almost dumps the food in the trash, a melodramatic act of his own, annoyed, doesn’t want to look at it. But since most of their fights involve one of them coming back sheepishly an hour later, he just covers it in case Cesc returns. 

+

Cesc doesn’t return. Piqué calls Puyol, whose line is busy. He calls Carlota, who doesn’t answer. Calls Cesc twice, no answer. Leo’s phone is ringing when Puyol calls back, so Piqué hangs up and takes the call. 

“Tío,” Carles says. “I love you like my own brother, but mother of God you are an idiot.” 

“Did you know?” Piqué says, “That Cesc—“

“Of course,” Carles replies.

“And you didn’t tell me?” Piqué asks, even if he knows Carles is the best secret keeper on the team and that he would never. Then he wonders, “Why didn’t he tell me? I tell him everything.”

“Not everything,” Carles reminds him. “He was worried you’d make fun of him.” 

Which, from Cesc’s perspective, Piqué realises, is exactly what he did. 

Piqué is kind of an asshole. “Fuck,” he says.

“Go fix it,” Carles suggests. Since Piqué’s certain that Puyi had been on the phone with Cesc the first time he called, he takes this as an indication that Cesc wants to talk. 

At Cesc’s house, Carlota opens the door. “Cesc’s not here,” she says. 

“He’s right there,” Piqué says. Cesc is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, in plain sight. 

“Yeah,” Carlota agrees, “he just told me to say he wasn’t,” and she steps back to let Piqué in. 

“Hi,” Cesc says. 

Piqué follows him into the living room and when Cesc sits down on the sofa Piqué sits beside him, not close enough for their knees to touch but close enough to reach him if he wants to. 

“So,” Cesc says. 

“What am I supposed to do now?” Piqué says. He knows what Carles thinks he should do, but it’s not so much that Piqué has ever been interested in men so much as Cesc, specifically, and so he doesn’t think they’ll find much common ground there.

“You’re not supposed to do anything,” Cesc tells him. “You’re supposed to not make fun of me and you’re supposed to be my best friend.” 

“I can do that,” Piqué promises. They sit in silence for a minute, until Piqué feels uncomfortable with the stillness. “Do you need a hug?” he asks, reaching out to tug at a curl of Cesc’s hair. 

“Are you making fun of me already?” Cesc asks, but he smiles a little and folds himself into Piqué’s arms. Piqué kisses the top of his head.

“Get a room,” Carlota says, walking by, and Piqué is determined not to let things feel weird. It’s just him and Cesc, same as always. 

+

The next day is miserable, a goalless draw against Betis, but afterward Piqué tells Cesc he still has the food from the night before, so Cesc goes back to Piqué’s for dinner again. Carles tags along, and Piqué digs out all the leftovers he’s got in the refrigerator so there’s enough food. 

They sit in the living room watching highlights of the day’s matches—Piqué is glad to see that Espanyol has lost 4 to 1, and annoyed to see that the loss was to Real Madrid. He lies on the sofa, Puyol is in an armchair, and Cesc sprawls on the floor near Piqué’s feet. Piqué looks down after an hour or so and sees that Cesc’s eyes are closed, his breathing slow. 

“He’s like a kid,” Piqué says to Puyol, reaching down to run his fingers lightly through Cesc’s hair. “Sleeps anywhere.”

“Gerard,” Carles says seriously, his voice low so as not to wake Cesc. 

“What?” Piqué asks, though he has a good idea what Carles is going to say. 

“So this is going on again?” Puyol asks. 

“Nothing is going on,” Piqué argues, but Carles just waves a hand dismissively. 

“You are so full of shit, Geri,” Carles says cheerfully. “Listen, I’m going to give you some free advice and in return, when I’m right, you are never going to tell me anything about your relationship that could in any way relate to having sex with Cesc. Ready? This isn’t like before; Cesc is here with us now, you’re not asking him to leave his team or move out of the country. Worst thing that happens is he hits you, which happens most days anyway. But I don’t think it’ll come to that”

“Why?” Piqué asks. “Did he—did he say something?” 

Puyol shakes his head, curls flying in every direction. “Just a feeling.” Then he glances down at the floor, where Cesc has begun to stir. 

“What’s goin’ on?” Cesc asks, words slurring as he drags himself back to wakefulness. 

“Nothing,” Piqué says quickly. Across the room, Carles rolls his eyes. 

+

They travel to Madrid for the first Clasico of the season. Piqué is put in a room with Leo, who is even quieter than usual, laying on his bed and looking up at the ceiling. Piqué thumbs through the latest issue of Marca, laughs at the idea of Xabi Alonso going to Arsenal, and then tosses the paper on the floor and lies back on his bed.

“Hey, Leo,” he says.

“Yes?” Leo replies.

“Is Antonella your best friend?” 

Leo thinks about it for a moment. “Yes, I think so,” he says. 

Piqué’s not looking at him but he can tell that Messi is smiling. “Is it ever weird,” Piqué asks, “uh, fucking your best friend?” 

“Okay,” Leo says, and he doesn’t sound like he’s smiling anymore, “No. No, I don’t agree to have this conversation, Gerard.” He turns over onto his stomach and puts his face into his pillow. His voice is muffled when he continues, “This sounds like something you need to talk to Cesc about.” 

The Clasico the next day, Piqué notices, has a somewhat friendlier atmosphere than some of Madrid and Barcelona’s recent encounters. He gets the most boos along with Neymar when they walk out, but he assumes that’s because of his sending off in the Confederations Cup that summer rather than anything personal, so it’s okay. During the coin toss, Piqué is glad to see Iker standing next to Xavi, captain’s bands on both their arms. It feels like things are falling back into place. Then the kickoff whistle blows. 

The game gets off to a miserable start. Cristiano Ronaldo scores in less than three minutes and ten minutes later Jordi accidentally trips Ozil in the box and Cristiano steps up to score a second goal with his penalty. But then Messi, of course, slots one in past Iker and Neymar scores another, and things are even again. 

In the 75th minute Cristiano completes his hat trick, putting Madrid up 3 to 2. One of the last plays of the game, three minutes into four minutes of stoppage time, comes when Cesc makes a run down the side and passes the ball in to Neymar. Piqué groans and puts his hands over his face as Iker knocks the shot wide. They take the corner, but Varane heads it away and the referee blows his whistle.

Piqué is sure that the game will be reported as one of the more entertaining Clasicos of the past few years, at least of the ones that haven’t included all-out brawls, but with Madrid six points ahead of Barcelona at this point in the season, losing to them in a match is even worse than it would be normally. 

Piqué spots Cesc across the field, talking to Iker, and he starts in that direction, but is waylaid by an annoyingly upbeat Cristiano. “Good game, Gerard!” Cristiano says, and Piqué lets Cristiano hug him, pats his back awkwardly and then watches as Cristiano jogs off to trade shirts with Leo of all people. Piqué thinks they’ll all be blinded by the million camera flashes going off at once. 

With Cristiano’s distraction, Cesc reaches Piqué before Piqué can reach Cesc. “Hey,” Cesc says, “You alright?” 

“Yeah,” Piqué says. “You?”

“My leg hurts,” Cesc complains. He leans down to rub at his calf. The stadium is beginning to clear out, but there are still plenty of Madrid supporters cheering their own team and booing Barcelona, so Cesc and Piqué leave the field and head to the dressing room. Piqué sits next to Andrés on the bus to the airport but on the plane back to Barcelona he is beside Cesc, who falls asleep almost immediately, drools a little on Piqué’s shoulder, and only wakes up when the plane is lining up with the gate at El Prat. 

Cesc follows Piqué sleepily to the bus at the airport and then to the parking lot at the training ground.

“Do you want me to drive you home?” Piqué asks. 

+

Cesc dozes in the passenger seat on the way home but by the time Piqué pulls into his deiveway Cesc is wide awake again. 

“Do you want to come in and hang out?” he asks, so Piqué parks the car and follows Cesc inside. They’re playing FIFA and Cesc keeps pausing the game to text, so Piqué reaches over for Cesc’s controller, unpauses the game, and uses the controller to commit a horrible tackle on video game Alves that gets video game Wilshere sent off.

“Hey,” Cesc says indignantly, as Piqué gives up Cesc’s controller for his own and uses video game Cesc to take the ball into the net. “I’m talking to Carles.” 

“Okay,” Piqué says, and scores a few more goals, putting the score at FCB 8 - 3 ARS. He takes a picture of the scoreline with his phone and posts it on Instagram with _cescf4bregas too busy talking to carles5puyol._

A minute later he gets a comment on the photo that says _**cescf4bregas:** this is the only way you can beat me. _

“You’re sitting next to me,” Piqué says. He drops his phone on the table in front of him and finally Cesc follows suit. “What’s Puyi want?” 

“Nothing,” Cesc says, “just saying hello. He said you need to talk to me about something though? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, of course, everything’s okay,” Piqué says. He makes a mental note to cut off all of Puyol’s hair. 

“Are you sure?” Cesc asks. He turns his whole body in Piqué’s direction, so their knees touch and their shoulders are parallel. “It sounded important.” There’s a bit of a smile tugging at the corner’s of Cesc’s mouth that Piqué doesn’t understand. 

Then the smile disappears and Cesc leans forward, presses his lips against Piqué’s. 

When he pulls back, he stays close enough that Piqué has to cross his eyes to look at him, Cesc’s face unfocused in front of him. He can smell the crisps Cesc had been eating on the plane, and Cesc’s hands are on Piqué’s thighs to balance. 

“Cesc, what—“ Piqué begins, feeling dazed. 

Cesc’s expression is smug, which is, annoyingly, a good look on him. “That’s what you want to talk about, right?” 

At first, Piqué is too stunned to do anything but nod, but then he comes back to his senses and says, “Wait, did Carles tell you?” 

“Yeah,” Cesc says, shrugging, “But you’re also, like, really obvious when you like someone.” His hands are still on Piqué’s legs, and they’re shaking, which tells Gerard that Cesc’s nonchalance is an act, but Piqué can’t even think that hard, is still trying to process what is going on. 

“Can you—“ Piqué begins, but he doesn’t know what he wants to say. _Stop talking, come closer, sit back, kiss me again_. He drops his hands to his lap, fingertips overlapping Cesc’s. He looks down at them until Cesc says his name and then Piqué looks up to meet his eyes. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Cesc says. 

Piqué doesn’t know if Cesc is asking or telling, but he gets the urge to reassure him anyway. He lifts his hands from his legs and puts them on Cesc’s shoulders, leans forward until their foreheads are touching, as they have on the pitch so many times, and says, “We always do.” 

Cesc doesn’t say anything, but he makes the smug face again (and Piqué thinks that he’d better get used to smugness because they’ll certainly be getting it from Puyol when he finds out). Then he leans back in to kiss Piqué a second time, so Piqué curls a hand around the back of Cesc’s neck and assumes they understand each other. They always do.


End file.
